


Composites

by Argyle



Category: Metropolitan (1990)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-09
Updated: 2007-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a lie unless someone's listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composites

In the first place, it was an accident. Nick walked Tom home after another night at Sally's, and while Nick had drunk a fair share of gin, Tom had more. There was a flush to his brow, and the way the streetlamps shone on his hair -- warm, like his cheeks, and so confoundedly red -- made Nick suddenly think of the great horrible vases of poppies his mother placed on the mantle every Christmas.

It made him drowsy.

He lit a cigarette, and then another for Tom. Tom refused it. His eyes were as red as his brow, and glassy; he huddled into the meager warmth of his slicker.

"Damned fool," said Nick.

Tom was watching his feet as though fearful the pavement might open up before them. "What?"

"Let's hail a cab."

"No. It's fine."

"Fine?" Nick spat a flake of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. "It's _freezing_."

"It's fine," Tom mumbled again, though his words shook in a shiver.

"No matter how many times you say that, I'm never going to believe you."

"Small comfort coming from someone who believes nothing at all."

Nick smiled at this, however briefly, before drawling, "You can blame Charlie for that."

When they reached the end of the block, Tom looked up. "That's something of a cop-out, you know. One should always be held responsible for one's actions."

Nick wondered whether Tom included his treatment of Audrey amongst his actions, but then again, perhaps Tom was every bit as oblivious as he made himself out to be. Sometimes it worked well enough to ignore the obvious. After a long moment, he flicked his cigarette into the gutter, and asked, "And I suppose it would be easier to not act on impulse."

"Easier? Maybe. But that's not something with which to build a life."

In retrospect, Nick knew Tom wasn't exactly right on this. You couldn't choose your parents, and from birth onward, a person was simply swept along with the tide; the rest was just circumstantial accessory. But when Nick leaned forward to kiss him, and Tom didn't pull away, all he could think about was the obscene chill of Tom's mouth.

\----

After that, there was no talking to him. They were scarcely ever alone, for even Frank, passed out on the divan, could be counted as an audience, and Nick was never quite sober enough for theatrics.

Instead, he often spun stories about Rick von Sloneker, though the term "odious malcontent" -- only to be internally voiced as "notorious cocktease" -- tasted no sweeter in the saying. When Tom stopped him by the door before Nick left for the International, it was only to straighten his tie.

"To the manner born," said Nick.

Tom's deft fingers continued to tug on the fabric at Nick's throat. "I know how to tie."

"Another pearl of wisdom bestowed upon a son by a father who's too busy to sup?"

"Yes."

"Ah! Don't pull. All right, but you know: they really ought to meet, our fathers. I'm sure they'd have _so_ much to discuss, up to and including the breakdown of family bonds for the sake of wickedness and moral superiority."

"My father doesn't think himself morally superior," said Tom.

"Doesn't he?"

Tom shook his head and pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Then you're a quicker study than even _I_ have given you credit for. Perhaps you should come along," Nick said, and put on his hat. He'd practiced _that_ in front of a mirror; the rakish angle brought out his cheekbones. "Keep an eye on my wardrobe, and my conversation."

"I doubt there's enough time to fit me in the family payroll," Tom said, not returning Nick's smile. It was at times like this that Nick longed for the power to draw his friend from the brink of seriousness, but he knew full well he would have better luck with a parson.

"Oh, no. There'd be no compensation."

"Pro bono?"

"Sure." Nick was almost to the elevator; Tom stayed in the doorway, perched below the art deco enamelwork like some ruddy marionette. "Isn't that what your sort's always on about?"

"Somehow I expected better treatment from a dying man."

\----

But Nick didn't die at his father's house over New Year's.

Of course, he occasionally imagined he might. After von Sloneker had so unceremoniously decked him, and after his friends failed to come to his defense, he supposed even his grossest imaginings were not only possible, but probable. It took a lot out of one.

The house wasn't much better.

The guestroom his stepmother put him in had the unlived in familiarity of a dream, and each night he was there he slammed his knee on the glass-topped coffee table which stood by the door. Really, the sheer gloom of the place was almost enough to make him forget the disturbing implication of being served meals made more of birdshot than quail.

He didn't talk about the deb season. No one asked, and nor did anyone comment when he spent more and more hours holed up in his father's library reading books on French philosophy.

Returning to university was almost a relief.

\----

Tom wrote him, once. This was before midterms, and he asked whether Nick would be back in the city over the break. It was all very polite, all very restrained, but damned if Nick was going to write back.

Who had the time these days?

\----

They didn't meet at the station. Nick had no patience for cliché, and his mother already had their evening planned out. He smoked feverishly all the way to the Ritz.

Two days later, he was still smoking, though by then Charlie and Fred had managed to meet him at a bar they'd once come to know intimately, but which now operated under a different name.

Charlie sipped his vodka and cranberry juice, and looked at Nick from over the rims of his glasses. He'd cut his hair: the brown shock which so often fell over his eyes was neatly slicked back, and his part looked all the more boyish for it. Meanwhile, Fred was as sallow-cheeked as ever -- it was as though, failing handsomeness, he had resolved to be the very best lazy slob it was in his power to be. Nick asked him where he'd found his jacket, and made a mental note to pick one up for himself.

Presentation was nine-tenths of the law.

He'd once read that on the back of a cigar box; it wasn't hard to believe.

"Fred tells me you switched majors," said Charlie, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Nick shrugged. "If one must fail, one may as well fail grandly," he said. "Though I realize I'll only reach true success after financing a set of fairytale castles in the Catskills and sleep in a large clam shell. Switching majors counts for fuck all."

"And what is it this time? Eighteenth century German phonetics?"

"Nothing so crude."

"Just so long as you have your priorities in order."

"Don't worry on my account. Castles aside, I have absolutely nothing of value to give back to the society which has so graciously reared me, and no amount of schooling will jeopardize that fact," said Nick, swallowing down the dregs of his drink. And then: "How's Audrey?"

"Well. She's well," Charlie said. "Well, she's visiting her aunt in Philadelphia."

"And Tom?"

"Visiting Audrey's aunt in Philadelphia."

"Does she still keep stables and a kennel?" Nick asked.

"Yeah." Fred smiled, drumming his fingertips on the bar top. "Never would have thought old Tom the hunting type," he said. "At least not where bugles are concerned."

"Beagles, not bugles -- it's all to do with sympathy for the pack, and a lingering propensity for agrarian politics." Nick checked his watch, then looked up to two sets of amused eyes. "Just when you think a person can be counted on to change in keeping with personal experience."

"Next he'll be b-back reading mid-century criticism on Evelyn Waugh and eating split-pea soup," stammered Charlie. "Not that that's necessarily a bad thing."

"Bad enough to stage an intervention."

\----

"The first bus was full," Tom explained as he met Nick on the steps of the Met. He had caught the summer sun: his brows were all but bleached, and his normally pale skin was recovering from a two-day-old burn. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

Nick gave his best approximation of a scowl. "Only forever," he said. "Though that's not to say your continued experiment in migratory populations was not worth the suffering of one humble epicurean."

"Oh." Tom rocked back on his heels and glanced towards the museum doors. "Well, I hear there's a new Magritte exhibit in the north wing."

" _Surrealists_. Are you really still taken in by that twaddle?"

"It's more that I find it my best interest to take in as wide a variety of perspectives as possible."

"Hardly seems worthwhile."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when one finds something one likes, there's little need to continue the search," said Nick. "You know, the garden café makes an excellent pastrami on rye."

As it turned out, Tom didn't know.

They bought their sandwiches, but rather than stay seated there like a couple of starlings amid the buzzards, they walked to the park and ate directly from the wax-paper wrappers.

Nick didn't believe in love any more than he believed in fate. He asked for his hat back, but Tom said he didn't have it, had lost it, had given it away like some trinket swept eastward by the surf. Somehow, this didn't come as a surprise, and nor was Nick shocked by Tom's response when he inquired after Tom's recent sojourn to Philadelphia: "Independence Hall was closed for renovations."

"That's it?" asked Nick. And then, before Tom had time to respond, "What's your opinion on split-pea soup?"

Tom arched a brow. "Am I supposed to have one?"

"I don't know. Didn't Rousseau mention it somewhere?"

"I highly doubt it."

"So you're not going to start eating the stuff, are you?"

"Eating what?"

"Split-pea soup."

"Not unless there's a shortage of ratatouille."

"I can live with that," said Nick. At least Tom had the courtesy to show a little culture, and of course all things Provençal would sooner or later regain their status among the haut.

Tom smiled and thumbed a breadcrumb from the corner of his mouth. "Good."

Later, when they made their way towards the street, Nick asked, "Want to come to East Hampton?"

"Why?"

"Why not?"

\----

It was no more ridiculous than life itself. Of course it couldn't be counted as the worst thing he had ever done, "thing" here being the imperative term. But why not spell it out? Above all, Nick considered himself a realist, and if he were at all honest with himself, he would be forced to admit he had invited Tom to his mother's estate with the sole intention of seducing him.

If only it was so simple.

They walked along the shoreline for what seemed like days, their backs against the wind and salt catching in the creases of their eyes. The chill wasn't entirely unseasonable, though it was irritating, and it suddenly seemed to Nick that the whole of nature had decided to conspire against him. He couldn't be expected to spend his youth worrying after Tom's health and wellbeing, whether Tom was too cold or too warm, or the whereabouts of that damned slicker.

Fawn wasn't even a good color on Tom; Nick offered him one of the old school blazers his mother stored in the back hallway, and Tom didn't quite refuse him.

When they ate, it was by themselves; when they drank, it was long into the night. They weren't lonely -- Nick felt comfortable speaking for them both on this account -- and after another day, the weather began to turn.

Their shoulders brushed together one afternoon by the pier. Tom didn't move away, but perhaps it was only that he failed to notice, and then Nick raised his hand to Tom's throat, grazing his fingertips across the tender triangle of flesh which peeked out from his open collar, and which was scarcely less pale than the white of his shirt. Tom drew in a breath; Nick wasn't far behind.

The kiss was almost chaste. Nick thought he might laugh, and then he did.

When he leaned forward again, he dragged his fingers through Tom's hair, pulling him closer to push their mouths together with an urgency he scarcely recognized in himself. Nick's free hand dipped down from Tom's chest, passing over his stomach several times before dropping to his trouser waist, where he found buttons rather than a zipper.

"How novel," he heard himself say as one, two, three buttons splayed free. Gently, he dashed his hand against Tom's briefs, and then moved back again to cup the bulge of Tom's cock.

Tom hissed out a breath, his hands tightening their grip on Nick's sweater. Then he kissed Nick back, and it was as good as Nick remembered, but soon there came the nearly-audible clank and clatter of Tom's brain gearing through a conundrum. He murmured, "Wait."

"Shh." Nick nipped at Tom's earlobe, then dragged his teeth across the line of his jaw. Tom shuddered, sagging slightly, before wriggling himself from Nick's grasp.

"Nick," he said breathlessly, and touched Nick's shoulder. "Nick, I can't. Audrey and I..."

It was Nick's turn to hide his befuddlement, though a flash of anger swept through in its place. "What are you talking about? Don't tell me your standards are too high. Surely no one who's been involved with Serena Slocum can claim such a thing."

"It would be a disservice to us both if I didn't admit that Serena are I were--"

"Just listen to yourself, Tom. How has anything we've done, anything we've _witnessed_ , not led up to this moment?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Nick let out a low laugh. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Only one of us has the luxury of being arbitrary and irrational here, and it seems you arrived at the platform before me."

"I'm sorry, Nick," Tom sighed. His cheeks were flushed, flushed as they had been on that long ago snowcapped night in the city, but his eyes were clear. In the dusk, they looked as colorless as the sea, and just as remorseless.

"Don't be," Nick said, and took a long step backwards. He pulled his jacket about him and leaned against the rail, gazing steadily out over the dunes.

"You haven't been around. First the time you spent at your father's--"

"Only because I had an invitation. You must know all about that."

"--and then the whole semester at school."

" _You_ were at school, Tom, if Princeton can be called that."

Tom's mouth fell into a taut line. "I was back every other weekend," he said, "not to mention the break. Audrey didn't return to Europe, and since Christmas we've grown quite close, you see..."

And Nick did see. He shrugged, offering, "I'll be around next year. Maybe we'll make it down to Philadelphia to see Independence Hall."

"You don't know how happy that makes me."

"Does it? Or perhaps it's only that you still need a _ticket_. You're lucky I don't charge for my matchmaking services." When Tom didn't reply, Nick continued, "Anyway, I won't be leaving again at all. Yale was a joke. I'd rather not support an establishment where cannibalism is a prerequisite for success. You're proud of me, aren't you? I can tell."

Tom appeared to consider this for a moment. Then he said, "What'll you do instead?"

"Build fairytale castles in the Catskills."

"What?"

"Nothing." With that, Nick heaved himself up and over the balustrade, landing on the dune with a dull thud. He kicked sand from his shoes, pushed his hands into his pockets, and took several long strides forward before stealing a glance over his shoulder. Tom's knuckles were white with his grip on the rail, but he gave no sign of moving. Nick quirked a smile which pulled at his heart, and said, "Dinner's at eight."

"Want some company?"

"After _that_ scene?"

Tom shrugged, already regaining his composure. If only he weren't so fucking _clinical_ , thought Nick. It was enough to drive a man mad, or if not mad, certainly down the New Jersey turnpike without a seatbelt and a couple of open Magnums in the back seat. In other words, to social suicide.

"Hurry up," he said, taking note of the rising bite mark beneath Tom's ear. "You oughtn't overestimate the patience of the soon-to-be dead."


End file.
